Murder on Nob Hill (25 page)

I put a check by Li's name, then moved on to Peter. Here again personal bias intruded. I had difficulty imagining the affable actor

as a murderer, despite the fact that he had ample motive and no apparent alibi. As Annjenett's lover, he would understandably wish to remove the obstacle to their happiness—and his financial freedom. Hanaford's money would also enable him to move his mother out of Bertha's bawdy house. As for Mills, well, Peter believed the industrialist to be his father, a man who had selfishly used, then deserted, his mother. Who could say what desperate lengths any of us would be driven to given those circumstances?

Drawing a check beside Peter's name, I moved on to ponder Senator Broughton. True, he’d been attacked outside his club, but I couldn’t ignore the possibility that the incident had been staged. It could have been an ingenious ploy to shift suspicion from himself if word of the tontine agreement became public, as it must sooner or later. No, I decided, I couldn’t rule out Broughton, and placed a check by his name as well.

I was still pouring over my notes when Celia knocked lightly on my door, then burst in before I had time to answer.

“I spoke to Ina,” she said breathlessly. “She's agreed to talk to her sister, Lotty, about Mr. Wylde.”

“Was she suspicious?” I asked anxiously.

“Not at all. In fact, she thinks it's quite romantic.”

“That's wonderful, Celia. When will Ina be able to speak to her sister?”

“Not until Monday afternoon. That's Lotty's next half-day off. I know it's hard to wait, but I can’t think of a way to get them together any sooner.”

“No, we don’t want to arouse suspicion.” Still, it was frustrating. It would be five days before the sisters could meet. Then we’d have to wait heaven knows how long until Lotty could get back to Ina. Unless—

“What if Ina delivered a message to her sister?” I proposed. “Something personal—about her family, perhaps?”

Celia looked delighted. “Yes, that would work. It's unlikely anyone would question Ina reporting some sort of minor domestic emergency. I’ll ask her about it tonight.” She lowered her voice. “What about you, Sarah? Were you able to find out anything useful about Mr. Wylde's financial affairs?”

Briefly, I related Robert's discovery of Wylde's monetary setbacks, then Samuel's report concerning the attorney's clubs.

“It's all so frustrating,” I said, rising from my chair and walking to the window. The sky outside was overcast and it looked like rain. I drew the drapes and turned back to Celia. “Subterfuge is so time-consuming. And so subject to failure.”

“Yes, but it's the best we can do under the circumstances.” She crossed to me and touched my arm. “I understand your concern, Sarah. It's hard to be patient. But remember, our cause is just.”

Celia looked so earnest, I couldn’t help smiling. I wished I could share her certainty that a just cause was enough to ensure success, but I knew all too well that life doesn’t always supply a happy ending. After she left, I prayed that hard work and perseverance would bring results, even if a just cause failed.

T
hat weekend, Mama, Papa, Samuel and I were to attend a performance of Verdi's
A’ida
at the Opera House. At the last moment, however, Hortense Weslyum asked Samuel to take her to a cousin's engagement supper, which, of course, left us with a spare ticket and me without an escort. Personally, I had no objections to attending the opera alone, but Mama insisted it was out of the question and suggested we invite Ulysses Lyman, one of Freder-

ick's fatuous friends. In hindsight, I’d like to believe it was this unhappy prospect that led me to do the unthinkable.

Actually, the opera was the last thing on my mind as Robert and I sat in my office the next day discussing our progress—or lack of it—with Annjenett's case. I was disappointed that after exhaustive inquiries, Samuel had been unable to learn anything more about Wylde from his fellow Bohemians, and my patience was wearing thin waiting to hear back from Ina's sister.

“So, here we sit,” I told Robert dejectedly.

I was prepared for one of his derisive comments. Instead, he surprised me by saying, “You’ve done everything possible, Sarah. Paulson tells me you’ve been to the jail to visit Mrs. Hanaford every day this week. No one could do more.”

I still say it was the fear of spending an evening in the company of a man even more boring than Frederick that led to what I can only describe as a temporary lapse of sanity. Having said this, I have to admit that Robert's unexpected display of sensitivity threw me off balance. Without taking time to consider what I was saying, I’d blurted out an invitation for him to accompany my parents and myself to the opera the following night. He looked momentarily taken aback, then, much to my surprise—and probably his own— he accepted.

“Good,” I said, then realized I had no idea what to say next. I was already regretting my impulsiveness, but could think of no civil way to retract my words.

The feeling of awkwardness grew. I’m sure Robert felt it, too, for after several bleak attempts at conversation, he rose, ran a hand through his thick mop of hair, then left, promising to meet us at the Grand Opera House in time for the performance.

He was as good as his word. The next night we found Robert

standing in front of the theater, a red-brown bear surrounded by the cream of San Francisco Society. It was difficult not to smile at the sight of the testy attorney, fashionably attired in top hat and tails, the snug coat and trousers betraying the fact that they must be borrowed. I only hoped the straining seams were up to the task of holding in his muscular six-foot-four-inch frame.

The Opera House was packed as we took our seats in the dress circle. Above us glittered the brilliant chandelier boasted to be the largest and grandest in the country. All about us sat men in elegant nightclothes and women resplendent in silks, laces and fine jewels. Seated in a box to our right, I was interested to spy Senator Broughton and his wife, Martha. I studied the politician from behind my program, but could detect no outward sign of the injuries he’d sustained from the attack the previous week. His mood, however, did not appear affable; at one point he spoke sharply to his wife and I saw her recoil from the sting of his words. After that, they sat in stony silence, each seemingly engrossed in their program. Through my opera glasses, however, I could detect tears shimmering in Mrs. Broughton's eyes.

I thought back to the night of Frederick's party and the scene that had played out between the couple after Mills's abrupt departure. Despite the devoted faces the Broughtons put on for the electorate, I wondered about the true nature of their relationship. They’d been together twenty years, but that didn’t mean it was a happy marriage. Too many couples, I thought sadly, continued on rather than face the harsh judgment of a society that considered divorce not only a scandal, but also a failure of character.

“If you stare any harder at that man, you’ll bore a hole through his head,” Robert said, startling me out of my thoughts.

“That's Senator Broughton and his wife,” I explained softly.

“I know well enough who it is. I also know why you’re studying him like a bug under a microscope. You’re still trying to connect his attack last week to his partners’ deaths.”

“I refuse to argue the obvious. Especially to someone too thickheaded to know the truth if it—”

“You’re a fine one to talk,” he cut in, his elevated voice attracting Mama's attention. She raised a cautionary eyebrow, but Robert was oblivious. “The blinders you wear prevent you from seeing any further than your own biased—”

“Oh, do be quiet!” I told the irksome man. “The performance is about to begin.”

The house lights dimmed and the orchestra struck its opening chords, causing me to forget my irritation. As usual with Verdi, I was swept away by the natural force and spontaneity of his music. Unlike Wagner, whom I admire but occasionally find too deliber-ate,Verdi's simple directness spoke to my soul. When I glanced surreptitiously at Robert, I was amazed to discover that he, too, seemed mesmerized by the performance. I looked quickly away, ashamed to admit that I hadn’t expected him to understand, much less appreciate,Verdi's mastery. It was annoying to discover I’d been wrong, and for a brief moment I wondered what other surprises he was hiding.

During intermission, we enjoyed champagne with friends of my parents, and it wasn’t until after the performance that I again caught sight of the Broughtons. Papa saw them, too, as we left the theater and called out to the senator, but Broughton appeared not to hear. Without slackening his step, he took his wife's arm and started across the street toward their waiting carriage.

What happened next was over so quickly that even now it's difficult to recall the event with any real clarity. I remember commenting to Papa that finding a cab in this crowd wasn’t going to be

easy when I saw the blur of a four-wheeled phaeton rounding the corner. To my shock, it made directly for Senator Broughton and his wife. I expected the driver to slow his horse, then watched in horror as the animal accelerated, spurred on by a man dressed entirely in black, with a dark hat pulled low over his eyes. I could see nothing of his face, only the snapping of the reins in gloved hands, urging the horse ever closer to the couple.

Belatedly, the senator spotted the phaeton and tried to hurry his wife across the street and out of its path. But Mrs. Broughton stood frozen, her eyes fixed on the carriage like a frightened deer. With a cry, her husband tugged on her arm. At the same moment, the driver swerved the phaeton toward the spot where, a moment before, Broughton had been standing, but where he had now pulled his wife.

I’ll never forget the look of terror on Martha Broughton's face as the carriage bore down upon her. She made no sound; at least I can remember none. Even if she had, it's doubtful I would have heard it over the screams of horrified bystanders. Robert claims that my own screams were loudest of all, and that he had to physically restrain me from rushing headlong into the street.

As I say, it was over in a minute, but it's a minute that will remain forever etched in my mind. To this day I relive the horror in my dreams, watching helplessly as the phaeton bears down upon the terrified woman until my cries awaken me.

I realize that the guilt I feel is irrational, yet no matter what I do it won’t abate. I’d been so close—mere feet away—yet I had been powerless to avert the tragedy.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

M
rs. Broughton's death sent shock waves through the city. As a senatorial candidate, Frederick pounced on the opportunity, demanding that laws be passed to ensure that San Francisco's populace was safe on its increasingly congested streets. While it was true that traffic mishaps were growing at an alarming rate, there was no doubt in my mind that Mrs. Broughton's death had been intentional. Everything had happened in a few blurred moments, but I was certain that at the last minute the phaeton driver had deliberately swerved his horse toward the senator. If Broughton hadn’t moved, he would very likely have received the brunt of the carriage's force and his wife might have escaped serious injury. The act had been premeditated. Someone had wanted to see the Broughtons dead. But had the object been to kill them both, I asked myself, or just one?

I thought I knew, although so far I’d found no way to prove my theory. Indeed, reports of the incident were considerably muddled. Robert and I appeared to be the only witnesses who had actually

taken note of the driver; everyone else's attention had been focused on the Broughtons and the carriage bearing down upon them. And while he and I agreed on the driver's appearance, the authorities once again seemed maddeningly incapable of seeing the truth. They refused to connect the phaeton driver with the man who had earlier assaulted Senator Broughton, despite the fact that both descriptions matched perfectly.

My entire family, save the children, attended the funeral, arriving in two carriages hired by Papa for the occasion. A crowd had already formed in front of the church by the time we made our appearance. I spied Joseph Shepard, and not far from him, Thomas Cooke, Annjenett's father. His face was gray and deeply lined and he seemed even more distracted than when I’d last seen him at the jail. I thought of going over and speaking to him, but what could I say? Despite all my grand promises, his daughter remained locked up in city jail.

My gaze moved on and I saw Eban Potter standing alone on the church steps, looking uncomfortably out of place in such distinguished company. Excusing myself to my parents, I moved to speak to him.

“This is horrible, horrible,” he said, mopping his head with a handkerchief.

I silently agreed. Sudden, unexpected death like that was always tragic, especially when it was likely a monstrous mistake.

“Were you acquainted with Mrs. Broughton?” I asked.

“Not much of late, but when Cornelius—Mr. Hanaford—and the others returned from the mines, I saw rather more of her. She was a fine woman—a credit to the community.”

“Yes, I’m sure she was.” I lowered my voice. “You’re convinced then that Mrs. Broughton's death was accidental?”

His gray eyes widened in surprise. “My dear Miss Woolson, what else could it be?”

The time to equivocate was long passed. “Don’t you think it's odd that this should happen so soon after the knife attack on Mr. Broughton? Have you considered that he might have been the intended victim and not his wife?”

He stared at me in seeming astonishment. “You think the driver of the phaeton meant to kill Mr. Broughton? But why?”

“There's the matter of the tontine,” I reminded him, and watched his face light with comprehension.

“But that would mean—” His voice trailed off as he looked over my shoulder. Following his gaze, I saw Benjamin Wylde alight from a carriage, then turn to assist his daughter, Yvette.

“No,” he went on, shaking his head. “I can’t countenance such a thing. Without divulging particulars, I assure you that Mr. Wylde's affairs are in perfect order. He’d have no reason to resort to such desperate measures.”